Castle in the Sand
by CharacterDriven
Summary: On a visit to Venice Beach, a lonely writer phones in a bedtime story to the woman he loves. Based on 2 prompts: FemBot's - "A Steamy Story with Only G-rated Words", & the phrase "All the songs make sense". It should be rated M for Metaphor. This is my first post. Critics, please be gentle but thorough :-D Thanks& XO to my beta 1st responders: Dia, Lousie & Nicole


He deserved – no, _needed_ - a break. He'd done two book signings that day, and had a dinner/talk/panel/thing at 8pm with the West Coast Writers' Guild. On the way from the bookstore to the conference center, he spoke to the limo driver. "Let's take a detour to Venice Beach."  
"It ain't exactly Hawaii, dude."  
"I know. Just go for it." (He thought, but did not add, _"Dude."_) "It's close."  
They arrived about fifteen minutes later at the roundabout.

"I'll walk from here."  
The driver said doubtfully, "You're sure about this?"  
He nodded. "I lived around the block for a few months when I was fifteen." That had been when his mom took a small part in a long-forgotten sitcom, cancelled after a season. He'd surfed a little, learned to ride a unicycle, suffered his share of sunburns, discovered Raymond Chandler, dated a few girls, then they'd moved on. Glancing around, it seemed to him that Venice was a good deal less squalid than he had remembered. He gave the driver an extra $20 and said, "Meet me here in a half hour. Maybe grab an ice cream."  
The driver cocked an eyebrow. "It's all on the clock."  
"Money well spent." He walked down Windward to the beach, and when he passed the graffiti wall, kicked off his shoes and socks, rolled up the hems of his uncuffed khaki linen trousers, and took a seat in the cream-colored but dirty sand. He pulled out his phone and autodialed one of his main reasons for being.

"Hey." Her voice on the phone was surprisingly soft, tired.  
"I'm so sorry. You should be asleep. You're four hours ahead of me." He hadn't really forgotten that, but he would have settled for hearing her voice mail.

"At least I made it into bed. But my brain's going a mile a minute." He wondered if he'd mistaken her tone. Not sleepiness. Sadness.  
"Good, otherwise I'd have to fly home and tuck you in."  
"In your dreams. I am not the tucking kind."  
"Well, maybe you just haven't been tucked properly of late."  
He barely heard her say it, or sigh it, or maybe she just thought it loudly. "I miss you."

A lump grew in his throat: She missed him? After all that time wasted pushing him away. _She missed him._ He kept his voice low. "Had a couple of drinks tonight, have we?"  
"Oh, just a glass of wine. Long day." She'd probably had two glasses of wine; he'd never heard her this... blurry before. Or maybe she was just tired.  
"Anything interesting?"  
"Man's inhumanity to man. The usual." Definitely sad.  
"Yeah." He struggled to keep it light. "So, I've been gone three weeks. Does absence make the heart grow fonder?"  
"Yes. You should stay away more often if you're going to descend into cliché territory."  
He retreated into sarcasm. "This from a woman who makes Joan of Arc look like a fluffy baby bunny." But he didn't want to nurse that touch of anger. It wasn't what she needed, wasn't what he wanted. He switched to a gentler tone. "I miss you, too."

"You do?"  
How could she question that? He wanted to shout at her. _Every goddamn waking moment of every goddamn day._ "A little. Thiiiis much."  
"Oh. That explains everything."  
_Just enough. Ok. Keep her smiling._

"So, just because it's my sworn duty as a salacious cad to ask, what are you wearing?"  
"My earpiece. I'm hands-free."  
He sat straight up. One hand cupped phone to ear. The other palm braced on the sand, grounding him. His voice pitched up a little, teasing. "Nothing else?"  
She chuckled. "It's muggy tonight, but the air conditioner smells like feet. So I have a window open." There was a short pause. "Is it warm there, too?" Did she sound... wistful?

"Sun's still up. Just about to go down. Seventy six degrees, light wind from southwest, 100 percent chance of dark."  
She scoffed. "Some weather man you are."  
"I left my barometer back in New York." _And my compass.  
_She chuckled, then paused a long moment. "Tell me a story?" she whispered.  
"Dunno if that's a good idea. I'm in a public place right now."  
"Where?"  
"Venice Beach. A wretched hive of scum and villainy. But also very pretty in a rundown and funky way."  
Her voice was sharp, teasing, awake. "Just like you."  
"Yes. Just like me." He unconsciously ran a hand through his hair, betraying the insecurity that he hid under a pretense of vanity. "What kind of ending are you up for? Ambiguous? Tragic? Comic? Cliffhanger?"  
"I want a happy ending," she said.  
"You truly are the Queen of Subtext, you know that?"  
She giggled. "Who, Us?"  
"Yes, Your Majesty, You." He tucked his left leg under him, half-lotus, his right knee up, supporting his phone arm. "Are you ready for your story?" His left index drew spirals in the creamy sand next to him, moving out from tiny loops to sweeping curves then back again. Circles, ovals. Innocent doodling. Nothing to see here. Move along.

He heard her rustling around amongst the bedclothes. "Yes. All ready."  
"What a lovely thought," he murmured.  
"Tell me more."  
He was ready, too, letting his mind drift. "The sun is about to set over the Pacific. It looks as big as my hand."  
"That's pretty big."  
He examined his hand. "So it is. The sky's pale with haze. Almost creamy. But right over the water it turns a deep, lush pink. The sun hovers over, just skimming the horizon." He swept a wavy line along the sand beside his hip. Forward, a slow loop, back again.  
"Like it might change its mind and go back up?"  
"Yes. Teasing the surface. But the forces of nature always win."  
"Mmm, they do?"  
"Believe it. You're a force of nature unto yourself."  
She huffed. "Unfortunately right now I'm stuck on gravity."  
"That's what holds the universe together. Where was I?"  
"Teasing."  
"Yes. The sun teases the water. Then it seems to bow down lower. Kisses it. Takes a sip."  
"How does it like the water?"  
"Oh, they were made for each other. Just have to be careful."  
"Not to burn out?"  
"Just... not to rush. To make it last."  
"How long?"  
"For always." His eyes teared a little, and he swallowed past the loneliness. _Make her smile. _"It sinks into the ocean, very slowly."

"How slowly?"  
"Slow motion, achingly slow, but perceptible. So bright. You can't look at it too long. Your eyes have to drift closed. Even closed you can feel it, from 93,000,000 miles away." He closed his eyes, knowing she would, too. He made it up from there. The smog-edged sky, cigarette butts and floating water bottles were gone, leaving an endless beach, pure and clean.

"Is it still hot?"  
"So hot that when its rays slide across the wave-tops, they glisten and steam."

"Ooh," she said. "Hey, um, how big are the waves?"

"They vary. This one, it's long, and slow, building up, and bigger than you'd think."  
"Incoming," she murmured.  
"Yes. It sinks into the sand with a sigh."

"How– alliterative."

"It pulls out, then a series of shallow waves come in."

"Count them."

He counted slowly. "One comes in. One goes out. Twoooo. Threeee. In and out. In and out."  
His fingers made a lazy figure-eight.

"Oh," she whispered.

"Four's small and fast." He flicked his fingers through the sand, as if playing a mandolin.  
"Fast," she breathed.  
"It's light. It slips right up onto the dunes."  
"The dunes?"

"They're pale-golden. Small, round, perfect. It swirls over them." He sculpted a little hummock of sand, cupped his palm over it gently, spiraled a finger back down.  
"Swirls?"  
"Yes. It clings to them at their peaks, seems to linger a moment, leaves them glowing, then comes back down. Oh, look. Backsplash. Back up again. Clever little wave."  
"Brilliant." She might have been holding her breath.  
"Fi-no, wait a moment." He paused, listening. He heard seagulls, the whoosh-crack of skateboarders, a distant car alarm. And something else, through the phone. A little sound in the back of her throat that, in his mind, separated her from every other human being on the planet. Except him.

"Is there a five?" She sounded quite excited at the concept of five.  
"Five. Yes. Five. It's really moving, coming in slow and hard." He dragged five stiff fingers in the sand, straight, strong, crisp lines.  
"Five."  
"The fifth wave. So heavy, so much motion. Just massive. A lot of energy in this one. Might just crash right over."  
"Mm?"  
"It just... hovers there, almost like it's waiting. And then it collapses, rolls in on itself, going back out to greet the next one." He pushed his straight fingers through the lines, deepening the furrows he'd plowed.

"The next. Six, is that?"  
"Sixxxx." His voice purred in her ear. He drew the numeral in the sand; a perfect plump oval, a curving tail. Then another one the opposite way. Six and nine. Poked a hole in each. Yin and yang.  
"Tell me more about six."  
"Six is high, light and dancing. The wind blows softly along the top of the dunes, and little ripples form. The sun's sinking further. The dunes blush deeply as warm light travels across their curves."

"Isn't it nearly down?"  
"What?"  
"The sun, is it going down?"  
"It is, it's going down. It's half-hidden now, yet it seems to swell bigger and bigger."  
"Turgid."  
He chuckled. "That's the word. You can look at it straight on as it plunges into the water. Cuts a path right through me, all the way to you. A path of rosy light." His eyes were still closed, but he knew what he was talking about.  
"Rosy, huh?"  
"Mm-hm. Rosy like rosebuds. Little pink rosebuds."  
"Gather ye rosebuds whilst ye may..."  
"I'll give you rosebuds. Soon?"

"Soon. But not soon enough..." Her breath caught.  
He stopped doodling in the sand, burying his thick fingers down deep, feeling it resist and yield. But dry, dry and lifeless.  
His voice was rougher now, almost thick. "Time speeds up and slows down again... This sunset could go on forever."

"Seven," She was a little breathless. "Tell me about the seventh wave..."  
"I say love is the seventh wave," he whispered, half-singing. "Just like in the song."  
She sing-songed back to him. "Every ripple on the ocean..."  
"Every leaf on every tree," he countered, and then went back to speaking, hoping she could hear the smile in his voice. "All the love songs make sense. Are you ready for the seventh wave?"  
"Almost," she murmured.  
His voice was husky, cracked a little. "Are you sure?" He dug his bare toes into the still-warm sand.

"Oh," she whispered. "Close. Tell me."

"Good." He paused for a long moment, listening to her breathe. He took a deep breath himself, of the salt air, faint pot-smoke, the sound of boom-boxes and seagulls and distant drummers. He thought about how the sunset light would glint red-and-gold off her dark hair. His free hand cupped his knee, knuckles nearly white. "The seventh wave is coming, rising up, hurling everything before it. It sweeps from one side of the continent to the other, washing right over me, roaring like a comet hitting atmo. It flings itself over the Sierras and the Rockies and the plains. The Appalachian Plateau just speeds it up, energy for thousands of miles, nothing to stop it, nothing to even slow it down. It spills over. It fills..." he paused, feeling the air cooling as the last rays of sunlight caressing his face. He opened his eyes again, meeting the sky, blue for blue. He saw the bright sliver submerge.

"Fills. Fills up what?"  
"_Everything_." He scooped up a handful of sand and let it flow slowly out from between his fingers, wishing that the falling grains could somehow make time go faster, faster so he could be with her again. "The momentum floods everything. Every river and lake and pond and bay, everywhere, overflowing, swirling around, salt water mingled with fresh. The seventh wave climbs the walls, crashes through the windows, throws down the door, rushes in to meet you."  
"I can almost feel it." He might have heard a little bump.  
He grinned. "Is the bed shaking yet?"  
"Don't– " her words ran together, he could tell she was gritting her teeth: "Be-silly!"  
"The seventh wave is still coming, lifting the bed off the floor, it's white water, whirling you around."

"I can just– just– picture that." She muttered something under her breath. He just listened. While he couldn't understand exactly what she was saying, he knew exactly what she meant.

She went quiet a moment. Then let out a little sigh, followed by what could have been interpreted as a giggle. "Whew. Good story."  
"I hope the ending wasn't anticlimactic."  
"No, it was just right."  
The last glow faded, replaced by pearl-blue twilight.

He paused a moment, blinked back tears. "Sun's down now. The water slips away with the tide. No evidence but little puddles."  
She sounded truly sleepy this time. "Thanks for the weather report."  
"That was more of an interpretation."  
"Mmm. Artistic." She was probably stretching. Definitely yawning.  
"So, coffee tomorrow?" She didn't reply. He smiled into the phone and spoke very softly, not even a whisper. "You still with me?"  
She murmured, "Always." He let that sink in, wondering if that meant what he really hoped it meant. She mumbled, "Keep your phone on your pillow. Maybe I'll call you at sunrise."  
"Whose?"  
"Yours."  
"I'll look forward to that."  
Her sleepy words ran together again. "Don'waitup. 'Bye."

He shut his phone off and took a few moments to gaze over the cool water and deeping gloom, thinking calming thoughts, letting the tide roll out. He stood and walked back toward the bustle of Ocean Front Walk. Where beach met sidewalk, he put his shoes back on, going sockless, brushing the sand off his loose trousers. He decided to leave a little sand in the cuffs then shake it out on stage at the panel, just for effect. Wry smile, shrug: "Took in some local color..." Stagehands hate that kind of thing, but audiences love it. Stagehands also love it when a hot pizza is delivered just as their shift finishes up.  
The limo was waiting at the roundabout, engine running. When he got in, he found a bottle of water in the cup-holder. He addressed the driver. "Wake me up when we get there," and closed the privacy screen.  
He held the bottle up toward the east in a silent toast, then drank it down, slowly, alone. Storytelling is thirsty work. It can give you hope. It can drain you dry. Sometimes it does both.


End file.
